Death Row
by Mangaland
Summary: [based on "Silent Hill"] Guilt is a powerful thing. It can manifest anything of one's imagination; it can even create someone to punish them for their sin. Houjun has a choice to either redeem himself or wallow in guilt forever.


I don't own Fushigi Yuugi or the Silent Hill Series. They belong to their respected owners. 

The fic is based on the Silent Hill 2 video game. Even if you hadn't played the game, I think the story should still make sense. If it doesn't make sense, then please tell me, and I'll make author's notes to address it. Thank you for your time for both reading this and the fic! 

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The teenager stared numbly, aghast at his reflection in the water. His skin was as pale as that of the misty atmosphere clouding over him; it suffocated with unrelenting guilt. The pain in his left eye was gone and what was left was just a light, tan-colored scarÐalmost as if it healed. He touched his reflection idly, the warm fingers mingling with the icy cold stream. The river was calm and slowly moving, as if everything were a dream. 

As soon as the mournful teen reached the flooded remains of the village, the fog had started to thicken. He strained his eyes, but all he could make out was the mud at his feet. The white, sticky thickness started to oppress his lungs, his very being into a breathless hustle. The tears stung his eyes and when he opened his mouth to breathe, nothing came out but a cough. Everything poured out, to flee from him, his very existence. 

And why shouldn't they run away? He was a monster. 

The teen dropped to the ground, pounding the dirt, writhing painfully for a breath. His fingers grasped the sticky, filthy grime from the flood. The material squished and spit, leaving those slender, calloused fingers trembling from the gross contact. 

He desperately clutched the stickiness in a painful grasp as the world flipped over and caught him only just in time to fling his limp form another direction and harshly toss him once more. 

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The straw mat did little to ease his aching joints. Stretching out of habit and holding his face for a few seconds, his mind realized the surroundings. The place was bare except for a roasting pot hanging in the center the fire burned in its tiny stoned, square patch. The matted ground surrounding it suggested that a person with limited belongings-perhaps a traveler... a wanderer-rested in such a place. 

The teenager stumbled outside. He felt nothing. Perhaps even numb. 

The fog had clouded even thicker than before, but surprisingly, it didn't choke him at all. He could no longer feel the stifling creeping down his throat. The air was as clear as day but the fog was overpowering the sight. 

"Where am I?", he whispered, gazing at the streets. In deep contemplation, even there, there was nothing. The streets were the same. The houses were the same. Nothing out of place. Everything intact. "I live here.", he murmured, detached while his eyes fixed on _her_ house. "Maybe she's home..." 

The cold, sickening chill ran up his spine as soon as he rested a hand on the wooden door. Something wasn't right about this. He idly traced patterns with his fingers, gazing at the fog playing upon the mahogany wood. It only occured to him now, that everyone was missing. Surely, Kouran would not wish to see him today? Perhaps she was busy cooking a warm meal on this cold day. 

He took a step back and gazed at the entrance. He glanced over behind him at the house he had emerged from. Nothing seemed wrong with it. Numbly, he reached for the door again and rested his hand. He was confused. Something _was_ wrong. _There's a reason why her house seems out of place. Even MY house is out of place. These streets don't seem right..._. The teen looked up to make eye-contact with the door. He would go inside and ask what was wrong. Half of him was afraid of finding out. 

The door was pushed open, into the dark and empty house. His own footsteps were the only greeting. Nobody was here. He glanced out the nearby window and stared out into the fog. Where was everyone? His feet took him to the kitchen immediately. Kouran was usually there at this time of day, cooking for her brothers and sisters. _What time of day is it right now??_. The kitchen was empty. The instruments were all in their resting areas; everything was fine. He looked out of the window again and sighed at the numbness of his heart and the whiteness of the foggy sky. He stepped toward the back room where she would sometimes be stitching up ripped clothes that her sister ran around in. It was locked. He stared at the tiny metal handle that kept the door shut to the frame. It was odd. 

Suddenly, outside in the empty whitness, the teen swore he had heard a noise. He turned swiftly and sprinted to the door, taking a glance out the window to see a silouette outside, trudging through the fog. When he got through the cold, wooden doors, the figure was nowhere to be seen. He ran to the street and looked around, checking alleys and calling out. Finally, the exhausted young man returned to her house to find a metal pole half buried in the dirt in front of the door. It was around his arm's length and definately wasn't there before. Numbly confused, he forced it out and stared at it just to get a better look. It was nothing special. _But it's strange that this metal is fashioned like this..._ Those blood-red eyes glanced around for the figure again. 

Numbly having a queer idea, he stepped into the house again and smashed the lock away with the pole. It flew off with a click, leaving the door to creak open in defeat. The teen stepped into the room and collapsed as the darkness suffocated him once more. In his agonizing moments of consciousness, he strangely remarked to himself how the darkness resembled the fog that invaded his every being and curled around in his skin to dominate. 

He fell endlessly, the darkness tangling around his bare skin and stretching him over his limits one minute to compressing his trembling body the next. He finally hit the floor and slowly awoke, getting the feeling back in his pained body. 

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He was in her sewing room, alright. But it was dark, illuminated by a single lantern, the red and orange flames playing upon the blood on the walls. 

  
To be continued... 


End file.
